Consider This
by soavezefiretto
Summary: Why does everyone think Ziyal is so innocent? In dark and dangerous times, there are things that have to be said... Please r&r! Now includes chapter 2, Garak POV.
1. Consider This

Disclaimer:I don't own or have invented any of these characters or the fictional Universe they live in.  
  
Summary: A letter, to be delivered after Ziyal's burial.  
  
Author's note: Ziyal is not a nice girl. At least not as I see her.  
  
Edit upon posting ch. 2: as an afterthought, I added the lyrics to losing my religion. After all, they inspired at least the title of this fic, and they do seem quite appropriate otherwise. This is not a songfic, though.  
  
Review:Yes, please. Although this is just a piece of nothing. Garak is such a tragic figure, he deserves a good love, doesn't he?

Consider this  
by

Miranda2

Life is bigger  
It's bigger than you  
And you are not me  
The lengths that I will go to  
The distance in your eyes  
Oh no I've said too much  
I set it up

That's me in the corner  
That's me in the spotlight  
Losing my religion  
Trying to keep up with you  
And I don't know if I can do it  
Oh no I've said too much  
I haven't said enough  
I thought that I heard you laughing  
I thought that I heard you sing  
I think I thought I saw you try  
  
Every whisper  
Of every waking hour I'm  
Choosing my confessions  
Trying to keep an eye on you  
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool  
Oh no I've said too much  
I set it up

Consider this  
The hint of the century  
Consider this  
The slip that brought me  
To my knees failed  
What if all these fantasies  
Come flailing around  
Now I've said too much  
I thought that I heard you laughing  
I thought that I heard you sing  
I think I thought I saw you try  
  
But that was just a dream  
That was just a dream  
  
REM, "Losing my religion"

You are a private man. Polite. Keeping a prudent distance from a girl prone to romantic exaggeration.  
  
There are things you know, but the words have not been spoken between us. These are dark and dangerous times, Elim, and I don't want to leave them unsaid. Consider this my voice, see my face looking up to you from between these lines.  
  
The rumours. Yes, I have heard them. I have heard them all. No one here, except maybe for Dr. Bashir, cares for you at all (although they have put their lives in your hands, and recieved it from thence, more than once), and it would seem only natural. Murderer, assassin. Cruel, cold-hearted torturer. Spy, traitor. Someone who would sell out anyone, lovers, friends, family, to save his own skin, or to gain some power. Someone who has done so, repeatedly.  
  
I accept all this as a fact. I am willing and more than ready to look at the world and say: "This man, who has killed hundreds, who has tortured innocents, who has betrayed friends and lovers, this man is my love, and to him I devote my life."  
  
I imagine you know, equally shocked and guitily relieved that I never did declare such an outrageous thing in public. Wondering, surely, why? Being such a nice girl. With such good friends to care for me, to give me advice.  
  
Well, this may come as a surprise, both to you and to my friends. I am not such a nice girl. I am not a romantic. Or, I am, but I have been more than that, and there is more than that inside me.  
  
I have lived out most of my childhood motherless, abandoned, in slavery, starved, cold to the core and the marrow of my bones. I was ready to die, or to be killed by my father whenever he found me. I have done things for one scrap of putrid food, for one hour of lukewarm shelter, that I have never told anyone. There is blood on my hands, Elim, and vicious hatred in my heart.  
  
I have come to know the heart. And that is how I know that you never took pleasure in any of it. Even though you would deny it, I know that you remember the faces of the people you killed and tortured.  
  
And I don't ask why you did those things. I don't ask why you sought power so desperately. Maybe it was just security you needed, maybe it was a subsitute for the real kindness no one had ever shown you. Maybe it was just what you had seen and what had been taught to you, and you knew no better.  
  
I am not interested, do you understand? Not interested.  
  
I know you as an honourable man. A patriot. Brave. Forgiving. Clever, witty. Tender. Willing to sacrifice himself for what he believes in, for friends and comrades. With courage to face his darkest demons. That is how you have shown yourself to me. And so I have come to love you, and cannot unlove you now.  
  
You already knew I, as romantic literature so quaintly insists in calling it, "had feelings" for you. (What feelings are those? Desire. Tenderness. Posession. Fury. Agony. Loss.) You didn't understand the reasons. Probably you won't understand them now.  
  
Ultimately, there is no reason for love. One day it stands there, demanding, blocking the way, and it has to be dealt with. I have decided to walk with it, to take it to my heart. I have decided to love you, and this is not an easy-made decision, because my love is deep and enduring. It grows steadily, it consumes. It eats and changes the shape of the earth, like fire.  
  
Only lately have I discovered my capacity for love. I love my father, though he has become a ruthless tyrant. I love major Kira, though she is prejudiced and fights hard to pretend she isn't as flawed as the rest of us. I have even learned to love myself, in spite of- in spite of it all. And you, you fill my heart. It is too late now, there is nothing I can do about it.  
  
I am still waiting for the right moment to say all this into your unbelieving, distressed face. I don't have hopes, one way or the other. I just believe that these things have to be said.  
  
If this reaches you, I am dead. Know then that this was in my heart, that I died loving you, and this love of mine is a good thing. It is big and powerful, so maybe, just maybe, it can stay with you.  
  
I don't know if I believe in the Prophets, I don't know what I believe in. Whatever powers of protection the Universe has to offer, I conjure them to your side.


	2. Uninvited

Disclaimer: Not mine. Didn't invent. Who cares, you're still making money, aren't you. Stop bickering.  
  
Summary: Garak's response to Ziyal's letter.  
  
Author's note: He doesn't strike me as the type who would actually write this down, so maybe you should picture him saying this words to her tombstone... or something entirely different. I'll leave that to you. The lyrics, again, are there because they are referred to in the title, and they could be appropriate. You may also disregard them. This is not a songfic.  
  
Review: I would be especially interested in your reaction to the lyrics. Do they belong where they are, do they make sense, or did they bother you? I also would really like ideas as to in what situation you think Garak would actually say or write something like this, and in that case, to whom? And, of course, tell me if you liked it! :-))  
  
Like anyone would be  
I am flattered by your fascination with me  
Like any hot-blooded woman  
I have simply wanted an object to crave  
But you, you're not allowed  
You're uninvited  
An unfortunate slight  
  
Must be strangely exciting  
To watch the stoic squirm  
Must be somewhat heartening  
To watch shepherd need shepherd  
But you you're not allowed  
You're uninvited  
An unfortunate slight  
  
Like any uncharted territory  
I must seem greatly intriguing  
You speak of my love like  
You have experienced love like mine before  
But this is not allowed  
You're uninvited  
An unfortunate slight  
  
I don't think you unworthy  
I need a moment to deliberate  
  
Alanis Morissette, "Uninvited"  
  
Uninvited  
by  
Miranda2  
  
Forgive me.  
  
It is strange to ask forgiveness of the dead. Irrational, illogical. Yet we do it all the time. We have special ceremonies for it. It is easy, after all. They cannot reject our pleas. We imagine them smiling gently, finally reaching out, making everything all right from beyond the grave. Of course, we don't want them to be at peace- it is our peace we seek, and so we bestow other people's forgiveness on ourselves, and carry on.  
  
Even someone like myself needs forgiveness, needs to be forgiven. Even someone like myself needs a certain, basic amount of peace of mind. So I ask you, I will beg you if it is necessary- for what? For not loving you? Ah, if only it were that simple! For what if I did love you?  
  
It simply is a question I never aked myself. Others, I have observed, avidly look for the signs. There is a continual asking themselves "how am I? How do I feel?" Thus, the symptoms of love would be easily detected. I, for my part, have stopped asking myself anything a long time ago. Frankly, I no longer care "how" I am. I survive as best I can, because that is the goal I have set myself.  
  
Not that I was not open to the possibility. I always am. That is part of the strategy. The possibility of friendship, that is, of a certain- attachment, to people, smaller goals, even sympathy for the ideals and goals of others. But love? That seemed to remote, just not- applicable.  
  
What you felt for me, oh yes, how well you knew. Holding hands, moonlit picnics in the holosuite, flowers and the omnipresent slightly stupefied smile... I believed your feelings to be of that nature, a product of youth and inexperience. Like everyone else, I assumed you were that: foolish and innocent and inexperienced. Like everyone else, I only saw the surface, the open, happy smile, the warmth you radiated. That was enough, that was all I needed, what we all needed, perhaps.  
  
To penetrate the thoughts, feelings and motivations of others, that has always been my hobby. A fascinating one, and quite useful, since it allows me to always be one step ahead of everyone. Except for you. Once I was sure that it wasn't your intention to kill me, I lost interest in you as an individual. I kept you apart. I needed you to stay a surface, nothing beneath those eyes, no intricacies of any kind, no motivation. No past, no future. A smile out of nowhere. Just like a miracle. A gift.  
  
And now I hold this gift in my hands, as you intended. You speak to me, you look at me. And it pains me to behold you in this way. You hurt me by being a person, by refusing to stay mute, by unwrapping the gift and showing me it was not a nice, empty box after all, and pouring its contents into my lap (what are they? Desire. Tenderness. Posession. Fury. Agony. Loss.).  
  
I do not want it. Let me go. Go away. You have come in here, into this heart I had already put aside, and thrust it right back into my breast, to ache there.  
  
Tell me, Ziyal, girl, little girl, were we something akin after all? 


End file.
